


Can you hug me as I go?

by maddienole



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, LSD, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Number Five | The Boy Needs A Hug, Number Five | The Boy Whump, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Protective Siblings, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddienole/pseuds/maddienole
Summary: What if the FBI captured Five instead of Vanya?2x7 canon divergence.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy) & Everyone
Comments: 95
Kudos: 333





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey look, I'm back and ready to continue torturing my favorite murder gremlin. 
> 
> (Seriously though, I've been wanting to write this since season two was released. Better late then never?)

Five was starting to regret this whole ‘family first’ mindset that he had adopted. It’s not that he didn’t care about his siblings (most of the time) or love them (most of the time) but it often felt like he was trying to corral uncooperative children who had no regard for the severity of situation they were in.

He tries to bargain, he tries to negotiate, to plead and argue and beg.

_Danger._

_Apocalypse._

_Guns._

_Tanks._

_Nukes._

_Death._

He found a way out. He _killed_ for a way out - as little pleasure as he took in that activity.

But Vanya had to choose _now_ to be obstinate?

Five wants to be mad. He _should_ be mad. He had every right to lose his temper. Why would you risk a chance to go home - to your _own_ time - for a woman you’ve known for less than a month?

 _But_.....he then thinks of Dolores. And he wonders - _not for the first time_ \- if he would have made the same decision as Vanya, refusing to leave his companion stranded in an era much unlike his own.

(He would have made the same choice. One hundred percent. But he isn’t paid not to be hypocritical. Though to be fair, he isn’t getting paid at all.)

_“A mom and her eight-year-old son are not going to screw up the timeline, Five! They’re insignificant.”_

_“No one is insignificant.”_

Maybe he shouldn’t have been so aggressive in trying to get Vanya to comply with his demands. Maybe he shouldn’t have decided to go with her back to the farm at all.

_“Why do you get to decide? You’re the reason we’re stuck here in the first place.”_

He thinks it must be a domestic dispute. Something with Sissy’s husband and the kid? Normally he wouldn’t put so much thought into the personal lives of his siblings - there simply _wasn’t_ the time, not with an impending apocalypse on their tails. But what he didn’t expect was a police blockade.

(She was glowing - blue and blinding and bright. In any other circumstance he would have been impressed by her control.)

But not now.

_“We can’t take that risk. They have to stay.”_

He blinks.

His powers were not fun with two people, almost akin to dragging a deadweight through the murky waters in the hope that you could both make it to the other side. He grabbed Vanya first, she was clearly the woman of interest in whatever marital dispute he had stumbled upon.

They ended up....somewhere. No more road and cops, just trees and grass and sunlight.

(No more bodies. Or blood. Or brains splattered on the pavement. One would think after joining the Commission that he would be desensitized to the sight by now. This was false. This is why he tries so hard to forget. A survival technique, nothing more.)

Five wasn’t so lucky when he blinked the second time to grab the rest of the party.

The room he woke up in was dark and perhaps more ominous than it needed to be. Some white-clad woman in the corner was burning holes in the back of his skull with her hardened gaze.

His head was pounding. _Throbbing_. This wasn’t his usual headache - not the one caused by stress and diet and lack of sleep. It bothered him that he didn’t know which cop was the one to smack him with a baton, he swore Vanya had taken them all out before he blinked her away.

Some man comes in - nondescript, desperate to look intimidating. Five was sure he killed a guy that looked like him once, back when his body had a few more wrinkles and a lot more gray in his hair.

“I’m Special Agent Willy Gibbs of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he drawls after - _not suspiciously at all_ \- closing the blinds.

_Fantastic._

The Commission would have hated this, drawing the attention of the FBI. It would take too much time to disentangle the mess from interfering with the timeline in such a capacity.

“Is that supposed to impress me?” he responds, trying to remain impassive.

His head hurts.

Five could see his captor’s lips curl up, just slightly, enough to signify amusement.

_Asshole._

“What’s your name, kid?” he then asks, pulling out a notepad. He was still smirking.

Five wasn’t tied down. He could blink. He could take the pen out of Gibbs’ hand and stab him in the carotid. He simply didn’t have time for this administrative _bullshit._

Except everything was just a bit too blurry. Shadows danced across his sightline, almost like they were taunting him. This was a remarkably bad time to be concussed. He tried explaining this to his siblings once, back when they were kids. He tried telling them that blinking was much harder than it looked - it required him to know where _exactly_ he was heading, and further to account for the Earth’s rotation, lest he end up suffocating in the vacuum of space. In essence, he _needed_ a clear head, and that was the one thing he didn’t have at the moment.

“Do you need me to repeat the question?”

“Fuck off.”

Gibbs’ smirk grows.

“It’s impolite for a child such as yourself to use that kind of language.”

Five clenches his hands into fists, trying to shake the fuzziness from his brain.

“I will ask again,” Gibbs continues. “What is your name?”

He takes in a breath - then exhales- before finally leaning back into his chair “Five,” he mumbles.

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse yourself.”

Gibbs frowns, taking a step closer. “Your parents named you after a number?”

“You would be correct.”

His head hurt. Gibbs’ sudden movement made him dizzy. _Nauseous_.

Gibbs shares a glance with the nurse in the back of the room. He then scribbles in his notepad. “I don’t believe you,” he says. “But that is currently unimportant.”

_I’m crushed._

“Where are your parents, kid? How old are you? What is your relationship to Miss...Vanya, was it?”

Five rubs at his eyes. He just....he just needed a couple more minutes to clear the fog clouding his mind. Then he could escape. Just a couple of minutes.

“Dead, fifty-eight, and I’ve never met her before in my life.”

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. The frown on Gibbs’ face turns into a snarl - positively _feral_ , almost. Apparently his patience had worn out and the time of niceties were over. Still, it didn’t frighten him.

His head hurt.

“Never met her before, huh?” There was venom practically dripping from his voice. “Then how is it...” he takes another step closer, “....that you ended up in a car with her?”

Five shrugs his tired shoulders. “Magic?” he suggests weakly, trying to suppress the urge to vomit up the cake icing he consumed not several hours previous. His ears were ringing.

A moment passes. Then another. Gibbs wipes the sweat from his brow before taking a step back.

“Is she your mother?” he asks. “Aunt?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life,” Five repeats flatly, sparing a glance at the clock. His time was up, his briefcase probably long gone by now. He failed.

Failure seemed to be his constant companion these days. He vaguely recognizes the sound of a voice somewhere in his peripherals - Gibbs must still be talking to him. But it is garbled - _jumbled_ \- impossible to comprehend.

A fist hits the desk and Five’s head snaps up.

“Am I boring you?” he growls.

Five mumbles something that might have come out as coherent, and apparently that was enough to continue on with the interrogation.

“Who is responsible for you?”

“Dunno.”

“You _must_ know.”

“I don’t know,” he repeats dumbly.

“How did you disappear like that?”

Five rubs at his temples. “I ran really fast.”

“No,” Gibbs snaps. “They say you just...vanished. Gone, with the woman you claim not to know.”

“Is that a question or a statement?”

Oh, he’s positively _fuming_ now. It would almost be funny if not for the fact that there was a jackhammer pounding against the base of his skull.

“Что ты делаешь здесь, в Далласе?”

Five frowns, crossing his arms. “The _fuck_ are you trying to ask me?”

Gibbs raises an eyebrow. “No Russian, huh?”

“Why would you think I speak that?”

Silence. He shares another glance with the nurse. The clock ticks. His head pulses.

Was it getting hotter in here?

“I will ask you again...”

“...in English?”

“.....how did you vanish like that?” he growls, ignoring the inquiry. “What are you, some kind of experiment? A spy for the KGB, perhaps? Одетый как школьник, чтобы сбить нас со следа?”

Five didn’t know Russian. He wasn’t Allison - learning languages didn’t come naturally to him. Every language had its own rules and even still, most never followed them anyways. He liked math because of its universality.

“I want answers,” Gibbs continues. “ _Real_ answers, and I will do whatever it takes to get them.”

Was that a threat? Sure seemed like it. Five breathes in - _slowly_ , focusing his power into his fists. He had spent too much time here already. His head still felt like it was being split open, almost unbearable to a degree, but he couldn’t spend another minute with these assholes.

He just needed to get outside. He can think of the side effects later. _Just_ outside the building.

With one last look at his captor, he then blinks.

(He remembers being concussed one other time - aged seventeen and alone in the apocalypse. He forgot what happened exactly, probably the result of a slip. But he did remember he was hurting and dizzy and tired. He didn’t want to walk all the way back to camp, and it was getting awfully late. He decides to blink even through the disorientation, ending up about 40 feet in the air.

He falls.

And falls.

And falls.

And snapped his wrist upon landing.

 _This is how you learn_ , father would have told him. _Don’t use your powers when concussed_.)

In retrospect, Five probably should have listened to his own advice. Because when he blinks this time, he doesn’t make it outside. Nor does he have the time to bear the brunt of the fall on his arms and hands.

His head smacks the tiled floor on the first story of the building, and everything goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this fic ended up being a lot longer than originally intended, but...what else is new?

" _Five..."_

Consciousness ebbed and flowed, closing in but always just outside his grasp. Part of him didn't _want_ to wake up - the dark endless void seemed like a much nicer place by comparison. But his body had other ideas.

" _...wake up."_

Waking - _fully waking_ \- was an arduous process, something akin to sprinting up a hill or wading through a river that was flowing in the opposite direction. Father actually included that as part of their training regimen for a while, until he shifted to the individualized tortures of their pre-teen years.

(also because the result was always the same - Luther was first, Klaus was last. Five was... _well_ , trying not to be last. But he was short and skinny and had knobby knees that were under threat of giving out against the rushing water.)

" _Open your eyes."_

Oh, right. Someone was talking to him - someone outside of the black void. _Open your eyes_. That shouldn't be hard - under _normal_ circumstances, that is. And this wasn't normal. Five tries, he really does. His brain didn't feel much like cooperating, desperately trying to drag him back into oblivion.

Mother would tell him the same thing after a mission gone wrong. She would stroke her cool robotic hand over his forehead and talk to him in that soothing voice. A voice just loud enough to drown out the incessant beeping and shuffling around the infirmary.

" _I just have a few questions for you."_

This wasn't his mother. It sounded familiar - _much_ too familiar. Another moment (or was it a second? A minute?) passes, he groans trying to summon up the willpower to embrace the conscious world. He blinks open his sticky eyes - _much too quickly_ \- and the sudden visual stimulation makes his stomach perform a summersault within him. He tries not to retch.

" _It's all gonna to be over soon."_

The first thing he was able to comprehend was that his head _hurt_. This wasn't new information, but unwanted all the same. The second thing was that he couldn't move.

(He was twenty-six and found himself pinned under a rusted 18-wheeler while out scavenging for food. Not having eaten in the previous two days, he didn't have the energy to blink. So he lied there - _completely immobilized_ \- for almost three days.

His body would eventually recover.

His mind would not.)

Five tries to focus on his surroundings, but if seeing before was a challenge, it was almost impossible now. Everything was just... _blurry_. His wrists were bound to some chair, his feet were bare and wet (was that water? Something else?) and...and his _head_ \- there was something strapped around his head, aggravating his ever-prevalent migraine even worse.

It almost felt like training. Father would use ropes, coarse and itchy and they _hurt_ , leaving red blotches on his arms that never seemed to go away.

" _But I can't use my powers if my hands are tied!" he cries, trying to yank his arm out of the ropes and failing miserably._

" _It is only a matter of mind, Number Five_ ," _Reginald responds tonelessly_. " _The only thing preventing you from escaping is yourself."_

Five couldn't even call it bullshit because his father was right (as he usually was). It took a lot of attempts, but he finally learned how to blink with his hands tied. By the time he was eight years old, he'd become a miniature escape artist.

(Father then graduated to handcuffs and chains.

Five didn't like those at all - one could claw and tear at rope over time. Metal was not as easily manipulated.)

His current situation presented a new difficultly, however, in that he was injured in a rather severe manner. His skull's impromptu meeting with the floor succeeded in worsening his concussion, in turn hindering other essential functions. Everything was just a bit _too_ blurry - he recognizes Gibbs by his voice, but he can't quite make out who was standing beside him. Logic would dictate it was that angry looking nurse from before, but at this point logic had failed him too many times for it to be reliable.

"What the fuck is this thing on my head?" he growls, trying to focus his sightline on Gibbs and failing miserably.

He hears a chuckle, then movement. The flicking of switches and...

_Pain._

He had been beaten up before - kicked, punched, thrown into walls, shot and shanked. But electrocution was an entirely new sensation, one that he did not appreciate at all.

It was like...being on fire. He couldn't pinpoint where the pain was because it was _everywhere_. White hot agony that left his limbs pulsing and unresponsive.

(He used to be very interested in electricity as a child - a byproduct of father's urging to learn more about the world around him. This interest soon festered into an insatiable curiosity. He was four when he convinced Diego to stick a fork into one of the outlets - the knife throwing bastard stole his last chicken nugget at lunch time.

Five thought it would zap him. Like rubbing socks on a carpet.

He was wrong.

And very lucky that mother caught them before the act.)

He wasn't sure if what he was experiencing now would be worse than that, but...no, this _had_ to be worse. The only blessing - _if it could be considered one_ \- was that it ended as quickly as it started.

"See?" Gibbs says lightly. "And that was the lowest voltage. Only goes up from there."

_Fucking psychopath._

If he lived through this, he wouldn't regret acquainting his captor's head with an axe. Gibbs doesn't waste any time, turning towards the angry nurse-lady who then proceeds to pull... _something_...out of her pocket. Something small and dark that Five's messed up brain couldn't quite discern.

He strains, some small part of his mind convinced that with just enough effort the straps binding him to the chair might give. He doesn't even think to blink, he couldn't if he tried - and he already did before.

He wonders if Vanya made it back to the barn or some form of civilization. He wonders if she is thinking of him. He wonders if she knows he is missing at all.

(And Luther and Diego and Klaus and Allison? Would they care? He wants to think they do.

...he _really_ wants to.)

Nurse-lady inches closer, forcing his head back with an impeccable grip. Five knows what is coming next - this _was_ the 60's after all. Psychedelic therapy was all the rage, or in this case, psychedelic torture. Five had to admit he'd be a terrible druggie, not that he ever used drugs in such a capacity before. The closest he got was when he consumed the wrong type of medication that he snagged from a mostly-standing pharmacy. He was fifteen and able to bounce back rather quickly, but the trip was bad and the hangover even worse.

He stuck with Tylenol from that point onward.

Now, however, it didn't look as though he had a choice. Something is being squeezed into his eyes and it _burns_ , made even worse by the fact that his hands are bound and there was nothing he could do to relieve the painful sensation from his corneas.

"Don't struggle," Gibbs drawls from the background. "Go with it, or this can turn into an _extremely_ unpleasant experience for you."

_Because this experience was pleasant already?_

He was going to kill Gibbs. He was going to wrap his hands around his neck and...and... _was the room melting?_

Oh...this was _bad._

He tries focusing on something - _anything_ \- but he couldn't. The clock was dribbling down the wall - a large streak of white and black. Gibbs was distorted, almost unrecognizable, like one of those funhouse mirrors.

He blinks. He's _floating._ Like a balloon.

...was _he_ a balloon?

" _Let's start with a simple question."_

That was a funny name. _Balloon._

B-A-L-L-O-O-N.

He giggles.

" _Who are you?"_

Huh, it was that voice again. He looks around for the source. Nurse-lady looks funny, like a white blur. Like a marshmallow.

M-A-R-S-H-M-E-L-L-O-W.

Wait...was it an _e_ or an _a_?

M-A-R-S-H-M-

" _Кто вы?"_

Oh, Gibbs was talking to _him._ Rude.

Five blinks his aching eyes, trying to brush the hair from his face before remembering that he was restrained. Everything seemed...slow. The words seemed slow and the movements seemed slow. The clock had stopped dripping but...was it staring at him?

There are eyes everywhere and they are staring at him, unblinking. Five struggles harder.

" _Отвечай на вопрос!"_

 _Nothing_ makes sense. Up is down and down is up and he's pretty sure he's on the ceiling but the ceiling is _actually_ the wall and the floor is now sideways but it is made of eyeballs. Or was the floor now the ceiling? Or was it always the ceiling?

"Ты делаешь это сложнее, чем должно быть."

He's floating...no, he's sinking. He's underwater and _struggling_. He's floating and sinking at the same time, like being pulled in two different directions. Gibbs' head is upside-down. Five reaches out to touch but he's floating like a balloon and balloons don't have arms. And they don't have legs. And faces and eyes and ears.

Where...is he again?

" _Номер пять, вы меня слышите?"_

The voice was too far away and he can't make out what is being said.

" _Number Five, can you hear me?"_

The voice was too close and it hurt his ears. There were bells ringing - deafening, almost. Was he going deaf? He looks up and there is no more clock, only an eye. A _big_ eye that focuses its gaze on him.

It blinks.

He screams.

" _Number Five!"_

He's falling.

Or, he thinks he's falling. It _feels_ like he's falling. Five squeezes his eyes shut.

(He was ten and tried to convince father that he should time travel.

" _I can handle it,"_ he tells him, clutching his worn-out physics book. He ran the equations in his head and on his walls, over and over again until his eyes glaze over.

His father adjusts his monocle. He stands up from his desk. He guides him to the roof.

He pushes him off.

" _Do you feel ready now, Number Five?"_ he asks at dinner time.

He didn't answer.

And decided that he did not like heights.)

Five is falling now. He falling and falling and falling and unlike before, he isn't able to blink. To save himself.

" _Number Five!"_

Was that...? No. It _couldn't_ be. Five knew that voice.

It definitely wasn't Gibbs. And...he definitely _wasn't_ falling. He breathes in deep, opening up his eyes again to find himself in near-total darkness. The ground is wet, his feet still bare.

Five gropes around until his hands hit wood - smooth and cool against his palms. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust in the dark - _his head is quite fuzzy_ \- but is soon able to make out a staircase.

Did he...blink? No, he _couldn't_ blink. Not now. Not with his head...

"Номер пять."

That voice again. It follows him around, speaking in his ear - _taunting_ him.

" _I told you so."_

" _I told you so."_

" _I told you so."_

He descends the staircase. He walks, one foot in front of the other.

" _Номер пять."_

" _Number Five."_

He's in his home - a dark, distorted, _twisted_ version of his home.

His head hurts even worse. Five continues to walk, almost on autopilot. He can't put his finger on it, but he knows that something is _wrong_ with the mansion - and not just the water and darkness. A painting in the wrong place or doors that he swore weren't there before. Like someone looked at a picture, then tried recreating it from memory. Close, but just off enough to notice. He looks back towards the staircase to find it missing (or was it ever there in the first place?) Almost as though his childhood home was restructuring itself with every step he took.

It was driving him insane. Was he dreaming? Tripping? Finally losing the remains of his sanity?

He continues to walk. He walks until he sees light. Not bright, but warm - emanating from candles. Dining room.

" _Number Five?"_

He steps through the doorway.

" _You're late for supper."_

They're all here. All of his siblings, including Ben. _Adult_ Ben. But they don't talk or acknowledge his presence at all. They just...sit. Dead-eyed and motionless, like mannequins.

_Sorry Dolores._

He remembers so clearly the last time he was having supper with them all. He remembers stabbing a knife in the table. He remembers arguing with his father over the extent of his abilities - he was thirteen and a lot braver than before.

(And a lot more stupid.)

_Is this the universe's idea of a joke?_

No. He was not playing this game. He _refused_ to.

"Sit down," his father instructs with a tilt of his head.

There was part of him that wanted to comply. The part of him that was still thirteen and alone and scared. The part of him that still believed his father was trying to do what was best for him (the part of him that _still_ thinks that, all these years later.)

Five digs his nails into his palms, drawing in a shaky breath. There was a world to save. An apocalypse to stop, however it might come about. He was not a child. He was _not_. His father had no control over him anymore.

He looks Reginald in the eyes.

" _No_."


	3. Chapter 3

It took Five far too long to admit that he might have been an asshole as a child.

Of course, one could argue (correctly) he was still an asshole now, but he simply didn’t have the same level of joy in flaunting his obvious superiority in front of his siblings as he did when he was twelve.

But back then, it was just so....easy. Luther was perhaps the only member of the Umbrella Academy who believed himself to be father’s favorite. It wasn’t an unwarranted belief - he _was_ designated Number One, after all. But Five knew that his father’s attention lied elsewhere. That it lied on _him_ , even more so as he aged. Because Five was a pompous, arrogant little shit who was unafraid to push the boundaries, to expand his limits, to test just how far his powers would be willing to take him.

“ _Tenacity_ ,” his mother had called it.

“ _Egotism_ ,” Allison would mutter under her breath as the attention towards her began to diminish in a way unsuitable for her needs.

Five was more than aware that the increased attention on him was not one rooted in love or concern - he doubted his father was capable of such feelings. But as much as he liked to poke fun at Luther and Allison for their undying need for attention, Five also yearned forit. And unlike his siblings, he was willing to go much further than they were to achieve it. The desire for approval almost matched the desire for supremacy....for _dominance._ Why wouldn’t father let him time travel? Did he not think him capable?

Five was better than everyone else. He _had_ to be - he simply couldn’t stand being an afterthought. A _failure_.

_“Come on, Five, who are you really?”_

He would spend his nights in the apocalypse curled up on bits of mattress stuffing and stray feathers. If the conditions worsened, he would find himself smoothing out some crumpled t-shirts to lay out on the barren soil. It wasn’t a good bed - _a soft bed_ \- but it was functional, one can’t be picky under such conditions. And he would just...lie there, wondering if his father cared that he was gone. He would rub his cheeks red from the constant flow of tears, thinking about his siblings, pondering if they missed him at all.

And he would wonder if the attitude and smugness and unending desire to prove himself was worth it in the end.

(He doubts it.)

_“Where did you come from?”_

Five blinks his tired eyes as the world twists and bends around him. He knows he is hurting, he knows he is still restrained. He knows that voice - that _face_. Gibbs is so achingly close to him, eyes locked on his own.

Five tries to talk - _to move_ \- but can’t find it within himself to do so. He blinks again and his knees hit the tiled floor of the mansion.

_“He’ll start talking soon enough.”_

Who the fuck was speaking now? He struggles to his feet, gripping one of the dining room pillars to prevent another slip. They’re all staring at him now, his siblings. Some gazes were blank, others were questioning. _Smug._

“We’re all waiting,” Reginald says, voice clipped and posture impeccable.

Five exhales, releasing his grip on the pillar. If he dug his nails any deeper into his palms then he would start breaking skin.

_“Five, talking to us is your only option.”_

He could feel seven pairs of eyes trailing him with every step forward.

“I told you no,” he repeats breathlessly. “Whatever this is, I don’t have time for it.”

Reginald raises an eyebrow.

“And what is _this_ exactly, Number Five?”

“I....” he pauses, brows furrowed. Part of him didn’t want to answer because, quite frankly, he didn’t _have_ an answer. He has no idea where he is. He has no idea where his siblings are. He has no idea if Vanya made it out okay or if everyone else made it to the briefcase on time.

Okay then, just start from the beginning. What _does_ he know?

_“Who is your handler?_

Five decided long ago that he did not like the word ‘handler.’ The word means one thing to most people but something completely different to him. He can still feel her polished nails run ever so gently down his cheeks, the smell of her perfume that makes him want to retch, her voice....it takes him to places he no longer wishes to be.

_“Answer me.”_

Right. Okay. Gibbs was still here, that he was able to process. Gibbs was still talking to him and he was still subdued in some capacity. Everything after that is a bit fuzzy and the harder he strains trying to make sense of the situation, the faster the world seems to spin. The distortion in his sightline makes comprehending anything a bit difficult at the moment. His eyes are burning and itchy, something was squeezed in them, he remembers.

“We are still waiting, Number Five,” his father drawls impatiently.

Five looks back up.

“For what?”

“The answer,” Reginald responds as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Answer to what?”

Silence stretches over the room. Five could see out of the corner of his eye that everyone was still staring at him. Unmoving. _Unblinking_. His stomach clenches when his gaze lands on Ben. He looks exactly like Five thought he would as an adult, which makes everything just that much harder. No, these weren’t _his_ siblings. They were still back in 2002, probably eating dinner and thinking about when he was going to come home after his arrogant display. He wonders if mother ever fixed the dent in the wood from when he stabbed his knife into it.

She probably did - anything less would serve as a reminder of disorderly conduct. The end result of a thirteen-year experiment on non-compliance.

“So you’re not prepared, is that what you are saying?” Reginald asks, turning back towards the table.

Five tries inhaling, but finds the task more difficult than it should be - as though his lungs decided that oxygen wasn’t so much a need as it was a privilege.

What wasn’t he prepared for? He feels something warm and sticky in his hands, dripping onto the floor. He hates this - he hates not _knowing_ things. He hates the effect that his father can have on him all these years later. He can feel the thirteen-year-old inside of him, yearning to break free and show his father why he is deserving of even the smallest iota of attention.

Five swallows thickly, trying to control the erratic beat of his heart. “I don’t understand,” he finally says. “Prepared for _what_?”

“It’s not his fault,” Ben interrupts softly. “There is no way for him to know.”

“Overexertion perhaps?” Allison says with a quirked brow and sly grin. “Trying to show off again, as usual.”

“I’m _not_ trying...” Five cuts in futilely.

“Or he’s just lazy. Didn’t study.”

“Maybe he’s been faking it all along. About the apocalypse.”

“....ran away and didn’t come back...”

“....doesn’t know how to stop....”

“....save us....”

“.....can’t....”

“But that’s what I’m trying to do!” he yells back, hoping that his legs won’t collapse from underneath him. “That’s all I ever wanted to do. To...save you all.”

Five knows that this can’t be real. Or maybe he was just hoping that it wasn’t. Because the words _hurt_. More than he could possibly imagine - the utter coldness and contempt radiating from his siblings drove a knife through his chest that twisted just a bit more with every spoken word.

Do they really think so little of him? Do they really hate him this much? His eyes are blurry again, but this time he is aware of the cause.

He looks at Vanya, characteristically quiet through this whole ordeal. It’s weird seeing her in the uniform, but it suits her in a way. If he was looking for support, however, he wasn’t finding it there. Her gaze is empty - calculating and devoid of the warmth and empathy that he so loved in her.

_(“You’re the reason we’re stuck here in the first place.”)_

She blamed him for stranding her here. They all did.

“And how do you plan on doing that, Number Five?” Reginald questioned flatly. “Do you know what causes this....apocalypse?”

Another breath. Five squeezes his eyes shut - only briefly - trying to stop the room from spinning.

“I thought _you_ were supposed to know that,” he finally manages to respond. His head was throbbing now, _pulsing._ “That’s why you created the Umbrella Academy, isn’t it? To save the world?”

_“Five, what are you doing in Dallas?”_

He gasps as the words hit him at full force. “That’s....not what I asked....”

He can’t finish. The room tilts, as though it was on an axis. His palms hit the floor of the....wait, _no_. He was sitting now, wasn’t he?

_“Keep ignoring me and see what happens.”_

He tries rubbing at his eyes but can’t get his arms to move. That voice...it wasn’t his father. It was....it....where was he again?

_“We will get you to talk.”_

Wasn’t he already doing that? He had been talking this whole time. Why hadn’t anyone been listening to him?

“Number Five, go to your seat at once. You’ll miss out on dinner.” His father's voice rings in his ears, sending a wave of pain through his skull.

He’s struggling now, trying to force himself into an upright position. How did he end up on the floor again? The sounds of clinking and the scraping of utensils against the plates fill the dining room. They aren’t looking at him anymore - at least most of them aren’t. Reginald’s cold gaze cuts through him life a knife. Five grits his teeth, taking a few wobbly steps back in his direction.

“Tell me what causes the apocalypse,” he demands weakly, grabbing the back of Allison’s chair to prevent him from aquatinting his backside with the floor again.

“What makes you think I know the answer to that?” his father responds as he reaches for a fork.

“You’re telling me you _don’t_?”

Vanya looks up from her dinner plate, some expression that Five can’t comprehend passes through her features. “You think it’s me, don’t you?” she asks. There isn’t any anger in her voice, resignation perhaps. Hopelessness.

“What makes you think that you can save us?” Ben stares at him, face aggressively impassive. “You couldn’t save me.”

“I...I wasn’t there, Ben. I’m here now. I’m...” Five trails off, running his fingers through his hair.

“Always so confident, isn’t he....”

“....full of it....”

“....can’t do everything....”

“....thinks he’s.....”

They just kept _talking_. And talking and talking and laughing and eating. Five couldn’t see - he couldn’t hear or stand or _think_. There had to be a way to stop the apocalypse, it was unfathomable for him to think otherwise. But it was _just...so...loud_. His brain felt as though it was melting out his ears.

“What’s the answer, Number Five?” Reginald demands, slamming his fist into the table. The light from the candles begin to flicker as the cutlery clashes onto the floor below.

He screams.

_“What the hell is going on with the lights?”_

_“He’s not responding. Let’s help motivate him.”_

Pain. Explosive, agonizing.... _inescapable_.

“The answer, Number Five!” his father demands, yanking him to his feet. “What causes the apocalypse?”

“I...I...don’t...”

_“Are you here to kill the President?”_

“Why don’t you know? You _are_ supposed to be the intelligent one, or was I incorrect?”

He’s shaking. Five could _feel_ himself shaking. He closes his eyes, trying to find his center, and opens them up to ash and smoke. The air - _bitter and acrid_ \- forces itself through his lungs. The buildings lie in ruins. The bodies....broken and bruised and battered, lie before his feet.

“I told you so,” Reginald says softly from behind.

_I told you so._

_I told you so._

_I told you so._

His siblings stare back at him from the ground, soulless husks in bodies that were once alive. That once had blood pumping through their veins and minds capable of taking and walking and _loving._ He had spent his whole life here. He had spent his whole life trying to get back to them. He tries stifling a sob, but doesn’t have the energy.

He was so tired.

_“Five, I don’t want to keep doing this to you, but I have a responsibility to the public, and I need to know who you are.”_

Five doesn’t know who he is. For the longest time, he didn’t need to be anybody. It was just...him. Five against the world, or what remained thereof. He existed for one reason - one purpose, there simply wasn’t time to think of life beyond that.

Another deep breath, and he steadies himself as best he could. There is pain, certainly - his body protests every movement.

“I can stop it,” he whispers, gaze locking on his father’s own. “I know I can. I...I can rewind the clock...give myself more time, there _has_ to be a way.”

_“What the hell is happening?”_

The world tilts again. Buildings break and collapse. Everything goes white. Then black. The colors fade and reappear. He’s inside...no, outside?

_“We’ve gotta stop him.”_

“Must I warn you again, Number Five?” Reginald taunts in his ear. “What happens when an arrogant little boy messes with things beyond his control?”

Thunder crashes through the air. The noise....it was defeating.

_“You’re going to have to terminate.”_

_“I’m trying! I’m trying!”_

Five strains as the world collapses in on itself. His father never trusted him. His father....he was the one who held him back. _He_ was the one who stopped him from reaching his true potential. He could see his hands glow through the blurriness and destruction. Through the pain and numbness in his bones. He held the universe itself in his hands - a misty blue that burns at his skin, almost akin hovering over a fire.

_“How is he still alive?”_

Five can still see them. He siblings. Fighting - on the streets of Dallas. _Alive_.

_Guns._

_Tanks._

_Nukes._

_Death._

He could do this. He could save them. He could...he could...

Five grabs at the fabric of reality, and _pulls._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways I'm sure he's fine


End file.
